Five Times Sherlock Helps John Remember
by ElvendorkInfinity
Summary: ...and one time he helps him forget. Sequel to "Five Times John Wishes He Could Forget".


**Disclaimer: I still do not own Sherlock.**

**AN: Several people asked for a sequel, and I just can't leave well enough alone, so here it is...longer sections didn't really seem to work, but it still took some ruthless editing to get them all – except the plus one – down to exactly 100 words!**

**Enjoy. I hope it's okay.**

**Home**

John doesn't expect any sudden revelation of memory when he returns with Sherlock to the flat in Baker Street, so the complete unfamiliarity of the rooms is no surprise to him. Nevertheless, there's..._something_...a feeling he can't identify, that runs through him like a hot drink, warming his insides comfortably but...inexplicably.

He doesn't _recognise_ the red chair, but at the same time, can't help but feel a strange, detached sense of déjà vu as he pulls the Union Flag cushion out from under him.

It's when Sherlock sinks into the opposite seat that John realises what the feeling is.

It's _home_.

**Coffee**

For two days well-meaning strangers who know John better than he knows them say that moving back in with Sherlock was a Very Bad Idea. He doesn't heed them; he knows them no better than Sherlock. Why should their advice be more valuable to him than his own instincts, which have served him so well before?

It only takes one thing to convince him he was right; coffee.

Automatically, he makes two - white, no sugar, for him; black, two sugars for Sherlock.

He realises halfway back to the living room; he never actually asked how Sherlock takes his coffee.

**Violin**

Over the next three weeks John's dreams are besieged by half-familiar images that slip away as soon as he wakes. Knife-sharp while he's asleep, the details blur, fading until he forgets them the moment he opens his eyes.

Somehow, remembering them becomes intrinsically linked to capturing his other memories.

One sound echoes through them, tendrils snaking into every scene, curling through them all...

Twenty nights pass before a voice from the dream stays with him when he opens his eyes: _how do you feel about the violin_?

The sound is playing even now he's awake, from downstairs.

It's a violin.

**Television**

Another week later, John is used to regaining snatches of memory; there aren't any instantaneous, enormous realisations, but gradually details seep in without him really noticing.

Sherlock behaves as though nothing's changed, which John appreciates. He knows he couldn't stand the awkwardness of being constantly treated with undue care because of his amnesia. He quickly understands this isn't something that worries Sherlock.

Boredom, though, is. Strangely, the safest way to occupy him between cases is television, and it's him shouting emphatically at it which prompts another emergence of memory.

John turns to Sherlock, smiling.

'So, did you get the beans?'

**Crossword**

John clicks the pen against his teeth, frowning thoughtfully at the half-filled crossword in front of him.

'Second letter "u"...' he mutters, then shakes his head, scribbling the word _impulsive_ from the little boxes and squeezing in _impetuous _instead.

It doesn't help.

'"Based on pretence, deception or insincerity",' John announces into the silence, 'twelve letters; second "e", last "s".'

Sherlock glances up impatiently from his phone, and there's a split-second pause before, 'meretricious,' he replies.

'And a happy new year,' John says, transported for an instant to the shore of the Thames and hearing Lestrade's voice instead of his own.

**Nightmare**

_Noise and screaming – everything is noise and screaming, heat and sand._

_Gunfire rattles and cracks, the sound of a helicopter's rotor blades cutting through the air roars overhead – John is running. Someone is shouting, but he cannot move fast enough. He won't reach them – he can't see where they are – _

'_Medic! MEDIC!' _

'_Watson – over here! DOCTOR WATSON!'_

_He rushes over, kicking up sand in a cloud as he throws himself to his knees at the side of an injured soldier; quick, practiced hands tear fabric away from the wound and reach for his kit – but it isn't there._

_He searches frantically, but can't find it – he had it, _he had it_ – and the man is bleeding, the man – oh no, oh God no, he knows this man, please no – _

'_Hold on, Sherlock –'_

_Sherlock, Sherlock, why is Sherlock here? Where is his kit? He can't stop the bleeding, he can't help, and the smell of the blood fills his nostrils as he pulls Sherlock to his feet, dragging an arm over his own shoulder and stumbling awkwardly towards cover._

_Someone else is shouting for a medic, in desperation, but John can't leave Sherlock – and '_where the Hell is my kit_?' he shouts, but no one is listening, no one can – they are ambushed and outnumbered and _why are there no other medics around_?_

'_John...' Sherlock is pale, shaking,_

'_Hang on, you'll be fine – Peters? Peters where are –?'_

_He doesn't complete the question; Peters is there in front of him, splayed at an angle that is _wrong_, completely still, his eyes wide and staring, but John has no time to mourn – he blinks and turns away, trying to sear the image from his mind and _focus _– but his way is blocked by another body, a young woman this time, barely twenty, blood pooled around her leg, which ends grotesquely at the knee. _

_Suddenly it's dark; John is struggling to move, his legs are heavy, as if he's moving through quicksand – Carter, Blackburn, Doyle, Reeves – men and women he has been unable to save block is way, and oh God the _smell _– and where is Sherlock?_

'John!'

He wakes with a start, breathing heavily and sitting bolt upright, eyes darting around the room urgently before they settle on Sherlock, standing at the end of his bed with a frown on his face and a phone in his hand.

'What – I – is something wrong?' John manages to ask, his breathing and heart rate gradually returning to normal.

'We have a case,' Sherlock replies; John finds himself grateful for the fact that Sherlock ignores the sweat beading on his forehead. His expression has softened ever so slightly and his eyes rake carefully over John's features unsettlingly, studying him, but he says nothing about it. 'Coming?'

'Five minutes.'

The images from his dream replay themselves over and over in his mind as he dresses, fully awake now but haunted by the phantoms of his nightmare. He has spent weeks struggling to regain his memory, but now...now he just wants to forget. He wants to have Sherlock's ability to delete anything he doesn't need or want in his head, so he doesn't have to keep thinking about it...

Barely three minutes after waking up, he's hurrying downstairs, pulling a woolly jumper over his shirt, to meet Sherlock by the front door.

'Ready?' Sherlock says, raising his eyebrows quizzically. _Are you okay?_

'Yeah,' John replies. _No; let's go._

In the taxi, Sherlock's usual silence is replaced by a constant stream of information – facts and figures from the case Lestrade has texted him with that John listens to perhaps a little too intently, not that they are the sort of thing he can do anything useful with. This is Sherlock's area of expertise, but John appreciates the unmentioned effort and makes sure he concentrates on every tiny detail, forcing everything else away for the time being.

Twenty minutes later he is _running_ – feet pounding on the pavement, heart racing, rushing loudly in his ears.

Sherlock is ahead of him, careening around corners and shouting directions almost lost in the wind to John, whose breath catches and burns in his throat – but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters right now but _this_, the chase, the adrenalin and _running running running_ – this is everything, this is his life, and the dreams, the nightmares, just don't _matter_ – this is all he needs, this excitement, this _danger_, these cases with Sherlock – they are what make him forget everything that has come before. Everything he wants to, while he clings to the memory of every second of the chase itself...


End file.
